Harry Potter and the Horrific Reality of Fantastic War
by LordRosein
Summary: This is the story of the Second Wizarding War with brutally graphic magical violence, a much higher body count, prolonged conflict, and generally horrific events. Dumbledore is dead, Voldemort is Minister for Magic, and the Order of the Phoenix is struggling to organize and maintain a resistance to the Dark Lord's totalitarian government.


**Harry Potter and the Horrific Reality of Fantastic War**

_Author_: Lord Rosein

_Rating_: M – Graphic Violence, Major Character Death, Adult Content

_Disclaimer_: I do not own anything - almost literally. I certainly do not own a multi-million dollar franchise or any of its constituent characters, concepts, or settings including but not limited to Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Voldemort, Hogwarts, Butter Beer, and Muggles. The following work is for fun, not profit. Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.

_Warnings_: If "_The Horrific Reality of Fantastic War_" doesn't give it away, this is a far more brutal and gory version of the Second Wizarding War. Even more characters die, most of them gruesomely and on-screen. Anyone and everyone might die. Okay, not literally everyone. I promise there will be at least one survivor. Also, in future chapters there will be romantic content including that of a homosexual nature. If this is not your glass of pumpkin juice, do not read this story.

**Chapter One**

**The London Spell Exchange**

_Kingsley Shacklebolt_

Kingsley Shacklebolt popped into existence in the deep shadows of a rather grungy London alley that smelled strongly of cheap liquor and urine. He didn't like his assignment. It was too risky. Somehow it didn't help that he had planned and given himself this assignment. Since Dumbledore's death, the Order of the Phoenix had been run by a council. You-Know-Who hadn't been able to stay out of the spotlight for long. With his monstrous ego and flair for the dramatic, he couldn't abide operating from the shadows for any substantial amount of time. He'd emerged with the very public mass slaughter of some four hundred Muggle-born witches and wizards and a manifesto safeguarding "true" wizarding _culture_ and _values_. Oddly, he didn't mention blood, though it was clear that was what all this was really about.

The very next day He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named installed himself as Minister of Magic. The Order became the Resistance. They also began referring to You-Know-Who as the Dark Minister, which was less of a mouthful.

Kingsley glanced around furtively. The Ministry, Diagon Alley, Knockturn, Alley… all of Wizarding London, really, was firmly under the Purists' control. He'd Apparated into a Muggle section of the city, but it was still extremely risky to be anywhere in London these days. Death Eater and Ministry patrols were brutally efficient. The Resistance had its seat in the North. Hogwarts had never fallen and Hogsmeade was an overcrowded but relatively secure haven for refugees who weren't willing to lick the black heel of the Dark Minister's boot.

Kingsley felt the slimy chill slipping over his body as he cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself. He added a few protective charms before setting off toward the car park. It was a little under a mile from his Apparition point. He trusted his contact, he just didn't trust his contact. At this hour, all the Muggles on the street seemed to have chugged an entire bottle of Ogden's firewhiskey judging by their behavior. He probably could have walked undetected without the aid of any magic. Then again, the spells weren't really in place for Muggles.

He bypassed the meager Muggle security on the towering parking structure with a cursory wave of his wand. He slipped under a thin post that seemed as if it wouldn't deter even Muggle vehicles, striding up to the third storey. His eyes continued to dart around wildly, piercing the natural darkness to see a few remaining cars and dirty concrete. A middle aged witch emerged from behind a square concrete column. Her hair was mostly a dark brown, but she had grey wings pulled back over her ears. She was wearing plain black robes that were slightly too tight. Her code name was Goshawk, after the author of the Standard Book of Spells series. He was guessing she'd been a Ravenclaw, but it wasn't terribly revealing. Then again, that was the point.

"The amulet is made from diamonds," she said.

"They sparkle like ice under the midday sun," Kingsley answered.

"There's little point in indulging in these passwords," the witch said tiredly, bloodshot eyes continuing to dart around the empty garage. Her tone carried a fatalistic cynicism. "If the meeting time and place were compromised, the password likely would be, too."

The witch gave a flick of her wand and a plain brown leather briefcase came into being between them. There was a faint hazy field surrounding it – some sort of ward. Kingsley hadn't seen it before. He supposed it must be the witch's own signature spell. He hadn't seen other Death Eaters or Ministry fighters using it. He also hadn't made any progress in analyzing or disabling it.

"You have something for me as well, I believe," the witch prompted.

Kingsley reached into his robe and directed a bound sheaf of papers over to the witch's outstretched hand. She flipped through it quickly – enough to get the gist, but not enough to pick up the details. The shimmering field dissipated and Kingsley quickly stepped forward to grab the briefcase. He clicked it open. True to form, she'd delivered. Twelve prophecies.

"Fletcher's running Intelligence now," the witch said, derisiveness creeping into her tone. "Too bad about Snape…."

"Too bad he was a murderous traitor?" Kingsley asked, his deep voice dangerous.

The witch looked at him, clearly not amused. "Yes. Too bad he was a murderous traitor. He was clever and resourceful. Well, Fletcher has had a few moments of… brilliance is too strong a word. Scattered insights, I guess. He'll have to do."

"I'll pass along your supreme faith in him," Kingsley said. He was a bit offended. He'd been working closely with Mundungus since well before Voldemort's reappearance and didn't care to hear him maligned.

"Leave ten minutes from now," the witch instructed matter-of-factly. Any witches or wizards in London were suspicious, but groups all the moreso. She turned, papers clutched to her chest and climbed over the railing as if mounting a hippogriff sidesaddle and dropped down out of sight.

Kingsley resisted the temptation to look at the prophecies again. He didn't actually know which ones they were or why the Resistance wanted them. That wasn't his department. He looked at his watch, counting the minutes as the ticked by. Finally, he reached into his pocket, fingering a spare button he'd rigged as a Portkey. A few moments later, the garage spun and whirled away as he appeared… in a dingy cellar. He was supposed to be in a playground in Surrey.

"Mr. Shacklebolt, I believe." A male voice came from behind a shimmering, shadowy screen. Kingsley tried to Disapparate and only to find himself completely blocked. That bitch had sold him out. "Don't blame poor Eugenia. Oh, her real name is Eugenia, if it matters to you. She had nothing to do with this. In fact, she's encountering her own… unpleasantness as we speak."

Kingsley stood tense and unmoving. There was a wooden staircase about five meters behind him, several sets of chains against the craggy wall to his right, and everything in front of him was blocked off by the rippling curtain of shadow. He kept his ebony wand gripped tightly, but there was little he could add to the wards he'd put up when he'd Apparated into London until he knew more.

"Word is you were responsible for planning that strike in Mould-on-the-Wold." The voice sounded eerily familiar, though toneless. There was no emotion or expression, but the timbre and character of the voice.

"Of course, the _legitimate_ Ministry held the territory, but we suffered losses, Mr. Shacklebolt."

It couldn't be. The voice was Remus Lupin's. Lupin couldn't have gone over. It was impossible. Kingsley wanted to blast away that magic curtain to see who was speaking. Remus was a werewolf; simple Polyjuice wouldn't work for him. If it were him standing there…

"You may consider us heartless in our utilitarian pursuit of Wizarding good, but we do care about our own."

Kingsley leapt backwards, causing the floor beneath him to erupt in a blast of earth and large cobblestones. The spray of dirt and rock cascaded out around him, deflected by his earlier wards as his wand moved in swift, sharp twists and turns, trying to undo whatever enchantment was separating the sides of the room. He'd never seen the spell before. He knew the split second spent casting Finite Incantatem would be wasted, but had to for thoroughness. As he began a more thorough disenchantment a volley of bright, neon purple lights shot through the rippling shadows toward him. The loosened floorstones rose up around him, intercepting the incoming curses. Shards of rock whirled around him like a stone hailstorm.

"I'll happily give you the satisfaction of a face-to-face duel, Mr. Shacklebolt." The shadow curtain seemed to fade slightly toward the center and Kingsley could make out the silhouette of a robed man. He steeled his stance, pointing his wand toward the other wizard. Abruptly, seven figures behind him dropped their disillusionment charms. "Or I'll take a tactically valid option and distract you while my allies blast you into pieces."

Seven Death Eaters dropped their Disillusionment Charms. Their robes and masks hid any real identifying features. Kingsley blasted the floor beneath him, the explosion filling the air with debris and throwing him through the air toward the corner with the staircase. Dust and smoke filled the room. Kingsley tried to take a step and his left leg crumpled, sending a black wave of pain up his body. He shifted all his weight to his right leg. He crouched as low as he could without putting pressure on his broken leg. He glanced back. Curses were still flying, the dust blurring them into hazy, watercolor comets. Someone – the clever one of the group – had set a whirlwind in the center of the room to clear it. Kingsley waved his wand to enchant the dust to multiply when hit by wind and grimaced as his leg throbbed.

He healed the break with the quickest spell in his arsenal and began running in a crouch toward the staircase. He could feel that it hadn't healed properly, but he could move. There was time to make it pretty later.

The curses were blurred by the airborne particles. The usual harsh streaks of bright light were diffused, looking like the streaming tail of a comet painted in hazy watercolor. Trails of red, yellow, and a strangely peaceful shade of lilac lingered in the air as Kingsley glanced back. An aquamarine curse flew straight at him and burst into a bright of stars as it hit his defensive wards. He leapt to the right. He tried to conjure some statues to act as cover and decoys, but the spell was blocked by the same ward keeping him from Disapparating.

_Work with what you have_, he thought, a wave of the wand ripping up chunks of bedrock through the floor of the basement. He rolled to sit with his back against one. The dust helped to hide him, but he couldn't see any of the Death Eaters… or Remus, if he were really there. Ducking, he sprinted over to another of the large boulders. He thought he could see the stairs. He couldn't see anyone there, but it seemed impossible they'd leave it clear. He needed to get to the top of the stairs without using the stairs and Apparition was out. He looked at the boulder he'd just ripped from the earth and the inkling of a plan came to him. He'd prefer to let it form fully, but this constituted a crisis if anyone did. He'd go with the plan. Even if it did involve pachyderms….

With a wave of his wand, all the grey chunks of stone were transfigured to living and very angry rhinoceroses. The dust irritated their eyes, driving them into a fit of fury that seemed to involve rushing around madly. Kingsley sprinted not toward the staircase but toward the wall, his wand causing the wall to jut out to form ascending stone hand and footholds. He would be climbing next to the tallest part of the staircase but didn't have to go anywhere near the predictable entrance.

Flashes of green bled through the dusty room like inkblots and the sound of stampeding rhinosceroses diminished to just a couple of sets of heavy footsteps. Kingsley leapt over to the platform at the top of the stairs to find… a featureless wall. He ran his hands along it, looking for a secret catch, feeling for a hidden door knob, probing for an enchantment. There!

He slashed a deep cut into the palm of his off hand and rapidly wiped blood against the stone. The wall faded away to a hallway extending about ten meters in each direction. Kingsley had just stepped out into the torchlight when he was struck in the back. Blisters erupted over every inch of his skin, causing him to buckle with pain. He rolled to the side, out of the way of the doorframe. As his shoulder hit the ground, an overwhelming wave of agony caused his vision to black but he clung persistently to consciousness.

This was beyond his skill to heal, but he did have an incantation that might get him through this.

"Negemus… sensum…" he wheezed, resorting to spoken magic due to the distraction of the pain. The clarity of the spell was immediate and almost as shocking as the pain had been. He stood, but had no real sense of his body. He couldn't feel anything – the blisters, the wand in his hand, his robes, even the position or presence of his own body. He ran down the corridor, testing each door for enchantments. Most were too complex for him to disable quickly, but one was lightly warded. He broke through into a room with dark green walls and a large hazelwood table surrounded by chairs. Neither of the other doors out of the room had protections on them.

A glimmer of hope dared to emerge in the back of his mind. He stepped into a brightly lit hallway with plush blue carpet, cream coloured walls, and very large windows. Moonlight poured through them, giving everything a silvery tinge.

A bolt of jet black came flying toward him just as he focused his concentration on Disapparating.


End file.
